Too Nice?
by smallsteps32
Summary: It may not look that way, but after some persuasion John can see that Sherlock is being nice. Hold on...what's he doing? (Drabble-not overt slash, but I suppose you could see it that wy, if you squint, and wear goggles-I mean, relationships aren't all ravishing and broken beds)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: As much as I would jump at the chance to sell my soul in exchange for the BBC, it has yet to happen...but keep a weather eye on the horizon!**

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"Sherlock!" John's agitated voice carried from the kitchen to where Sherlock was laid barefoot on the sofa, his suited body wrapped in his favourite blue dressing-gown, "How many times have I told you about leaving bloody body parts in our fridge?"

Sherlock took a moment to glance at his flatmate, who was now standing, arms folded tightly across his chest in the gap between the kitchen and the living room. He did not look pleased, although Sherlock couldn't think for the life of him what he could do to make him less pleased. Staging a murder to induce the thrill of the chase was, even he could see, a little extreme. Good intentions nonewithstanding, pedantics were the word of the day.

"They're not bloody, in fact they're very clean." Sherlock drawled, draping his arm over his eyes so that John couldn't glare him down; this didn't stop him frmo trying, as Sherlock didn't even hear him move, "As a doctor you should know by now that dead men don't bleed, especially when said pieces of said men are no longer connected to the vascular system."

John growled under his breath, his footsteps tracking his journey from the kettle to his chair beside the fire. Sherlock risked a peek and was met by an exasperated glare and a pair of fingers pinching the bridge of their owner's nose.

"Why are there so many?" John asked after a few moments, "There's almost no room left in the fridge, I couldn't even see the milk."

"I was being nice." Sherlock replied shortly, and a small smile, the one that appeared when Sherlock thought that he had done something pleasing, tugged at the corners of his lips. John's eyebrows pinched, and he seemed to forge this anger in the stead of confusion.

"No, I'm sorry Sherlock...nice?"

Sherlock gave his flatmate a withering look. What was the point in not deleting things if John didn't extend the same courtesy

"Yes. You told me to be nicer to Molly, so when she complained about the amount of bodies that she had to look after recently, I offered to lighten the load and take some off of her hands." he explained, annunciating every syllable, just in case John felt the need to repeat his question.

John pursed his lips, and it was clearly an inch either way as to whether he tackle that explanation, or accept that Sherlock had done something that he _thought_ was kind, and leave it be. The latter seemed to have won, to Sherlock's relief, as the tension in John's shoulders released, and he collapsed into the cushions.

"Dare I ask what you plan to do with so many arms, and tongues, and...I don't even want to know what those things on the top shelf are." he asked wearily.

"They're two livers, a pancreas, and a phallus." Sherlock retorted, hoisting himself up onto his elbows; if John had given in so easily, then today promised to be less dull than first anticipated, "And I don't have a plan yet, but there will always be another experiment. That's the wonder of science, there's always more to discover."

John let out an almost imperceptible scoff.

"If you can be bothered to discover it you mean."

Sherlock turned his head to glare at his flatmate, pointing his finger accusingly.

"I told you last time! If you go anywhere near astronomy again, I will personally lobotomise you so that you can't remember where you sleep at night, let alone what's in the sky!" he warned, before gesturing towards the skull, "You really will be filling in for Billy then!"

John raised his hands in surrender and took a sip of his tea. Just as Sherlock was about to close his eyes and return to his musings on the latest entrant to the Darwin Awards, the doctor spoke up again.

"While you were spending the day _being nice..._I don't suppose you took the time to get me that milk I wanted?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the small smile he aimed at his flatmate.

"I put it in that drawer at the bottom so that it wouldn't get infected." he said warmly, enjoying the pleased face that John made as he continued to sip his tea, now with a newspaper on his lap, "And I picked up that presciption that you've been nagging me about. I still don't understand why I need it, but I thought I'd save you the trip that you were inevitably going to make for me."

John had the grace to look surprised, and then almost flattered.

"Brilliant!" he remarked, ignoring the self-rightous smirk on Sherlock's face, "I'm glad you've done that, even if it is just a weird phase."

"It was my pleasure." Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and settling into his thinking pose, his hands clasped beneath his chin. There were a few moments of companionable silence before the sound of the newspaper slamming shut made Sherlock's eyes snap open and focus on John, although he made an effort to look nonchalant.

"Sherlock!" John gritted out between his clenched teeth, "What did you do?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, and had the gaul to try and look innocent. His eyes flittered across the ceiling.

"What makes you think I did anything?"

John slammed his mug and the paper onto the coffee table, before sitting forward, his elboes on his knees, his hands clenched tightly together.

"That's why you're _being nice; _you've done something, and this is your way of buttering me up." he growled, glaring at the detective, who still refused to make eye contact.

Sherlock glanced around the room a bit more, hoping half-heartedly that John would just sigh and continue drinking his tea. When this didn't happen, Sherlock exhaled and rolled his eyes. He looked John directly in the face, remaining laid down in the hope that John would see his vulnerability and take pity as he gazed imploringly into his eyes.

"Don't be mad at me...but..."

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**Forgive the cliffhanger, I find that imagination works far more wonders than the written word.  
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**My first Sherlock drabble, thoughts? In character?  
**

**If you like this, you might like my crossover 'One Big Mess', which involves a lot of Sherlock (my favorite by far), with some Avengers and Doctor Who thrown in  
**


	2. Chapter 2

_"Don't be mad at me...but..."_

Sherlock trailed off, looking anywhere but at John, who was steadfastly glaring at his flatmate, his expression stony as he waited for a response. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, broken only by the agitated huffs that John was making, Sherlock finally decided upon sheepish petulance. He flung himself into a seated position, clasping his hands together on his knees, and met John's gaze with a confident one of his own. _Really, _he thought, _it_'_s not the worst thing he's come home to._

"John, I don't have time to run you through all the particulars," Sherlock started, and encouraged by the roll of John's eyes, (_fond, _Sherlock decided, _that's goo_d, _means he's more likely to take this on the chin, like the good old soldier he is), _he continued, hurrying the last few syllables, "If you'd rather just skip to the conclusion then I recommend you take a look in the bathroom."

"What have you done to our bathroom?" John asked slowly, gritting his teeth when Sherlock made no effort to reply, but rather peered down at his fingernails, holding the matching ones from each hand together in what looked like an attempt to make both sides symmetrical, "Sherlock!"

"Ugh!" Sherlock dropped his hands into his lap and met John's gaze once again, "Just take a look for yourself; don't worry, it shouldn't impede upon your nightly routine, or I'd have done a lot more than buy you milk!"

He made a sweeping, dismissive gesture with his left hand, waving it in the direction of the bathroom. John opened and closed his mouth a few times, before deciding that it wasn't worth the effort and clamping it shut. He pulled himself frmo his cosy chair beside the fire and marched from the room.

Sherlock counted to twelve before John's voice rang out from the other room.

"SHERLOCK! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?"

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**DUH DUH DUH...**

**(I joke, the rest is on the next chapter, which should be up at the same time)**


	3. Chapter 3

**"SHERLOCK, WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?"**

Sherlock, with a sigh of acceptance, swept from the sofa and walked as stiffly as he could towards the bathroom. He even made a special effort to have his blue dressing gown swish dramatically when he strode through the doorway and around the corner. John was standing, waiting in the space that led to the bathroom, and his hand was held rigidly in the air, pointing into the room.

"What is that?" he demanded, shifting into the door frame to allow Sherlock to peer at the object of his anger. Sherlock glanced disdainfully at the problem, peering down much like he would if he were watching raindrops slip down his nose (John would never say it, but it was at moments like this that Sherlock almost mirrored Mycroft's lofty condescension).

"John, I doubt very highly that you need that explaining." Sherlock drawled, settling back onto his heels, so that he was resting against the opposite frame to John.

John exhaled loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock decided that the best course of action was to allow John to feel a modicum of control by letting him berate him when he felt ready. To fill the time until then, he surveyed the mess he had made. _It's not that bad_, he thought, holding back a smirk, _although unlike previous times it was actually an accident. Maybe that explains the guilt?_

Most of the bathroom was untouched. _Well yes, _the normally slightly grey porcelain around the bottom of the bathtub was stained a little red, but that was easily fixed by someone who could be bothered to spend half an hour on their knees scrubbing with bleach. And, Sherlock could grudgingly admit, the shower curtain should have been put back as it was; he hadn't wanted it to get contaminated! He was a scientist, he _did_ understand basic hygiene. And to his credit, the organisational system in the cupboards hadn't been touched; _of course they hadn't,_ he was the one who had set it up.

No. Sherlock was pretty sure that what John was mad about was the rather noticable hole in the floor. The hole in the floor that measured about a foot either way, and provided a rather grim view into the murkier corner of one of Mrs Hudson's walk-in cupboards. _Oops._

Sherlock broke away from his musings just as John lifted his head and pursed his lips. Definitely not impressed then. To be fair, Sherlock wasn't particularly impressed with himself either; the incident had interrupted an important experiment.

"How did you even manage that?" John was finally able to ask, his displeasure mixed with disbelief. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but there was no ire behind them.

"I was experimenting. I was using the bath as a controlled area in which to test the effect that different chemicals had on the blood and cells within the various parts I got from Molly-don't" Sherlock raised his hand and leant into John's space to stop him from interrupting; his flatmate had been about to berate him, "Don't. You asked me not to do this kind of thing in the kitchen 'where we prepare food', so I used the next cleanest place. And I now accept that it was a good decision; the bathroom is much easier to sterilise after an experiment is over."

"That's great Sherlock," John sighed, running a hand briefly over his face; Sherlock could see that he was close to giving up, and tried not to light up at the idea, "But how exactly did body parts in the bath lead to this...I don't even...how did you manage to burn a hole through the floor, and the ceiling below it?"

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, before seeing the look on John's face. _Honesty then...marvellous. _Sherlock awkwardly ran a hand over the back of his neck; this was actually a little embarrassing, but that might help gain sympathy.

"I left the chemicals balanced on the sink when I was clearing up," he admitted, watching as droll realisation softened John's expression, joined by a smirk that pulled up the corner of his lips, "I caught them with my elbow when I was getting up."

John, _the bastard,_ looked as if he were having trouble deciding to laugh at Sherlock's clumsiness, or criticise him for making the mistake in the first place.

"This better not go in your blog!" Sherlock said quickly, biting back a growl when John shook his head, still fighting a smile.

"Whatever you say," he replied, shaking his head again; he had clearly decided that there was no point in being angry, although Sherlock could definitely sense an element of Shadenfreude in the way John was looking at him now, "I don't think I'm the one you need to be worrying about mate."

"Mrs Hudson need not know until after you've had it fixed." Sherlock replied with a small smile. John didn't seem to be that put out, now that he'd seen the funny side; the milk must have done it's work. It was nice, Sherlock realised as John glanced around the bathroom for any other kind of damage, just laughing together, being on the same wavelength for one. _Well...maybe not the same wavelength...but close._

"Hold on!" John said sharply, pulling back from the doorway, "What did you use to mop up these corrosive chemicals?"

Sherlock's face spilt into a grin, and rather than answer the question, he placed a hand on John shoulder and gave it a fond squeeze before pulling away again.

"See! I told you practice would improve your observational skills! You noticed the distinct lack of towels, I assume." Sherlock didn't wait for John's confused and nod, although it came, followed by a look that said, '_I'm not an idiot'_, "I had to use the closest thing I could find, and your towels paid the price."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock raised his hands defensively and John folded his arms over his chest.

"I'll buy you a new one online!" he retorted, adn after a few moments biting his bottom lip, "If it helps...I also burnt through the sleeve of my thrid favourite shirt, and the knees of my black jeans."

John's smirk returned, and Sherlock, although he didn't know it, mirrored the warm expression.

"Yes Sherlock, that does help." John remarked, shutting the door to the bathroom and walking away, "It helps immensely."

Sherlock smiled properly again. _Brilliant, got away with it. _He strode after John and into the living room, where his flatmate was remaking his now cold tea, a second mug beside it. Sherlock dropped uncerimoniously into the sofa. Everything was going swimmingly today, except for a few minor hiccups. There was only one thing left to do.

"John, I may require your assistance hiding the hole in the floor from Mrs Hudson until I can get it fixed."

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**As far as I'm concerned, that's the end. I hope you like it. I have some ideas for a fluffy epilogue, so if you'd like one, let me know.**


	4. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

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****"Thank you for helping me do this," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, looking up from his task to smile briefly at John, "It would be far more tedious on my own."

"You know that this isn't going to work, right?" John replied, not tearing his eyes away from the task, but smiling nonetheless, "She comes in here to wipe down the surfaces."

Sherlock shrugged dismissively, reaching across to take another piece of plywood. The two of them were sitting, cross-legged on the bathroom floor, either side of the hole, in the middle of the day, sello-taping planks of plywood over the gap in a shoddy attempt at hiding it.

The whole situation was ridiculous, Sherlock knew, but it was actually nice, having something strategic to focus on; it reminded him of when he had tried covering up his messes from his mother when he was a child. Except this time he wasn't alone; John was sitting opposite him, humming an erratic tune under his breath whilst he focused all of his energies into pulling out the tape without getting wrapped up in it, and then placing the planks of wood evenly across the hole. Sherlock couldn't help but think that the single-mindedness of the way John went about the task was fascinating to watch, and just a little adorable.

"Well I think that's done." John stated, once they were no longer able to see the ratty purple coat, or the vinyl records that sat forlornly in Mrs Hudson's cupboard.

"I think it rather is." Sherlock agreed, rubbing his hands together before stacking the remaining plywood into a small pile as John wrapped up the tape, "Although it's a shoddy job."

John shook his head, smirking as he did so.

"It would be shoddier if I hadn't been here to help."

Sherlock smiled fondly; he wanted to show John that he appreciated the help, but signs of affection were not his area of expertise. He settled for something that appeared to go down well between the manly men friends on television.

"That is would be." he remarked, fixing on a stiff smile, and then curling his hand into a fist, bumped said fist against John's upper arm in a friendly gesture, although it came off more awkward and static, "Good job!"

John merely looked bemused as he rose to his feet, offering a hand to pull Sherlock after him.

"Thanks?"

Sherlock shook his head, his expression dropping.

"No, that won't do, that was ridiculous." he muttered, turning on the spot to sweep the floor mat over the now boarded up hole in the floor. When he turned back around John was leaning against the doorway waiting; _still smirking, the bastard._

"Yes, that _was_ ridiculous." John commented smugly; he had been smug all day, relishing Sherlock's clumsiness, his day of mistakes, "It's a good thing I understand what you meant by it."

"I could hug you if it would make the message clearer." Sherlock offered sarcastically, opening his arms in a welcoming gesture, but pulling them back just to ensure that John didn't take him up on it just to annoy him. Not that he'd mind...or...whatever.

"Mmm...now that would be weird." John replied, chuckling under his breath. He stepped away from the doorway and wandered into the living room. Sherlock, of course, followed, dropping into his own chair.

"Do I owe you a massive favour now?" Sherlock queried, watching as John peered at his reflection in the mirror. _Clearly not planning on sitting down, so already decided up going elsewhere._

John shot him a look.

"You could buy me dinner," he suggested, "I'm starving."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John's observational skills were clearly improving as he was already moving across the room to pick up his coat.

"I'd have thought you were sick of the sight of me after spending all day in my company." Sherlock mused as he rose to his feet, taking the long black coat that John was holding out to him. John didn't grace that with a look, instead just heading straight for the door.

"Well, lucky for you Sherlock, I actually enjoy your company." he replied through gritted teeth as he struggled with the zip on his coat. Sherlock waitied patiently by the door, but couldn't help the smile that just didn't seem to want to go away today.

"Next thing you know, we'll be snuggling on the sofa, and holding hands whenever our favourite song plays over the supermarket speakers." he joked provocatively, smirking when John didn't laugh, but looked up as he passed under the arm the was holding open the door.

"Don't tempt me." John shot back, enjoying the genuine warm chuckle that escaped Sherlock's chest as the two of them trampled down the stairs.

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**Officially the end now. If I start writing fluff, I will actually write it forever, and my IRL will get neglected.**

**Hope you liked :)**


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